


To Know is to Yearn

by Melo_Mapo



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: And Paz Finds it Sexy, Din is a Polyglot, First Mission, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Sparring, Sparring is a Mandalorian Social Event, Strangers to Lovers, Tusken Raiders (Star Wars), learning a language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: Paz Vizsla has to sacrifice his first solo mission and take the newest addition to the Covert along instead. Who's this Din Djarin guy anyway?“Do you kneel, or eat your insult?”It takes Paz a second to get it, and when he does he chuckles weakly, unsure how serious the man is. Who knows what offends him? Belatedly, Paz answers:“Er, which one would you rather have?”Settling back on his chair, Djarin gives him a very obvious once-over, and answers in that same composed voice:“The former, I think.”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla
Comments: 22
Kudos: 253
Collections: Covert Discord New Years Fic Exchange, Melo Mapo’s Favorite Mandalorian Pairings





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thetamehistorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetamehistorian/gifts).



> It was a delight writing this fic as part of the Covert Discord New Years Fic Exchange. Tame, your fics have been a delight to read and I hope you enjoy this one as a token of my appreciation for your writing!
> 
> My thanks to [MissTeaVee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTeaVee) for proofreading this one!

Paz simply cannot believe it. Slamming the door to his quarters behind him, he seethes. _My first solo mission, and it’s not going to be solo anymore._ _And I am getting assigned that new kid as a partner_. Pacing the room, Paz grabs weapons haphazardly, starting his packing. Don’t get him wrong, he feels bad for the guy, apparently his _buir_ and him have been on their own since the Purge, and the _buir_ died in an hunting accident. It’s just… well, the new guy comes off aloof is all. Doesn’t really engage much. Ruusaan was saying just yesterday that he might not even follow the same code as them. 

With a sigh, Paz shoves a precautionary change of clothes in his bag with the spare ammo. The Armorer has made her decision, and it’s final, so there’s nothing to it. At least it’s a short mission, a run to Tatooine to pick up a _bes’bev_ from a collector of some kind. They will take one of the Covert’s ship, a Bothan two-seater that’s fast — though it only has the one cannon, and the roundtrip should not even take a full rotation. 

Paz sighs again, unable to settle down. He better go and work out some nervous energy in the sparring room, or the flight to Tatooine will be a trial. He’s too big for most standard ships, and that Bothan two-seater was _not_ designed for a person of his bulk. 

Paz hurriedly finishes his packing before stalking to the sparring room, only stopping a couple times along the way to receive the congratulations of fellow Mandalorians who heard about his mission. He’s surprised to find Djarin in the room — he would have thought he’d be preparing for the mission by meditating or something. He does a lot of sitting alone in corners, after all. 

The man is wearing his piecemeal armor, though he’s lost the cape which Paz spots neatly folded in a corner along with the guy’s Amban rifle. There are a few people sparring in pairs or trios in the room, their grunts of exertion and the impact of their armors mixing with the dulled sounds of the Droid Repairs & Enhancement on the ground level above. The Forge is next door, though it is silent right now, both activities hidden from outside curiosity by the upstairs shop. 

Djarin is moving through forms, and has not spotted Paz yet. Resigning himself to be the polite one, Paz walks over, and waits to be noticed before saying:

“Are you ready for the mission?”

Djarin finishes his series before turning to Paz and nodding. Manda, the guy sure doesn’t talk much. 

“Would you like to spar before we take off?” 

Djarin tilts his head, and Paz has lived his entire life with armor-clad warriors, most of them whose face he has never seen, yet Djarin’s body language is thoroughly obscure. 

“Spar?” Djarin repeats. 

Feeling like an idiot for having even offered in the first place, Paz grounds out:

“Just a bit of hand-to-hand combat, if you care for it.” 

Djarin’s head goes back to a straight position and he says:

“Yes, hand-to-hand.” 

He gestures to the mat and Paz steps up. These days, most of the Covert avoids hand-to-hand practice with Paz in his full heavy infantry armor, but it does not seem to phase Djarin in the least, and Paz’s wonders if he’s a fool. 

With no warning, no salutation, Djarin goes for Paz. Paz blocks, surprised by the frontal attack. _Definitely a fool_ , he thinks before going on the offensive. Djarin is nimble, more than his walking gait would suggest, and he dodges most of Paz’s attacks, deflecting when he can’t, and parrying when he has no other choice. Djarin might not be _too_ unwise, Paz concedes, as Djarin shakes off a light impact on his vambrace. Paz steps back, letting his sparring partner try and attack next. Djarin is decently tall, but not as tall as Paz, and he certainly doesn’t have either Paz’s bulk nor his reach. Nobody at the Covert does, really, and that’s why they refuse to train with Paz if they can’t actually slip under his guard and hit his unarmored body. With the armor on, there are not enough weaknesses left to make it fair. 

Djarin clearly hasn’t gotten the memo, though, because after a few more back and forth with no hits landing on either side, he suddenly darts in, pushes past Paz’s guard by shouldering Paz’s fist away, and proceed to jab at all the joints in Paz’s armor, somehow slipping between the plates in three different locations before Paz can step back. 

Paz grunts, rotating his shoulder until the smarting fades. 

“You’ve fought heavy infantry before?” Paz asks. 

Din shakes his head no. 

_Maybe he’s no fool at all, then_ , thinks Paz. This new guy is proving to be a better warrior than he thought. They’ve garnered some attention from the rest of the room, and Paz redoubles his efforts, hitting increasingly hard every time he makes contact, hoping Djarin will yield before Paz inflicts actual damage. 

No such luck. The man is as stubborn as he’s talented, and shrugs off another hit to the stomach — even with the padding, the lack of armor there should have made it too painful to go on. Paz, who had thought that this hit would be the last, is taken aback when, instead of stepping back, Djarin dives forward, taking Paz out at the knees. They hit the mat with the clang of beskar against beskar. Paz tries to scramble up, aware his lack of agility on the ground will doom him, but he is too slow. Djarin climbs up his body, kneeling on Paz’s arms right past the elbows, and places both hands on Paz’s helmet. 

Gasps go up in the room, reminding Paz they have an audience, and shame burns him, mixed with the fear that this newcomer, whom rumors say doesn’t follow the Creed, will make him _dar’manda_. 

“Yield.”

The voice is pained, but contains no anger. Paz hesitates, and Djarin tugs his helmet down, the reverse of taking it off but a reminder all the same. 

“I yield,” grumbles Paz.

Djarin immediately stands up and off him, offering his hand to help Paz up. The humiliation is hot in Paz’s guts, but it’s tempered by admiration. It has been a long while since somebody had beat him fair and square like that. A couple of people holler, and Din’s hand starts lowering. Paz seizes it before it’s too late, almost bringing Djarin to the floor again before the man can brace properly and help him up. 

“You fought well,” says Paz.

Djarin takes the compliment with a nod. 

“Thank you.” 

With a touch to his helmet, Paz checks the time. 

“We are expected by the Armorer before departure. Let us go.” 

Djarin walks to the side of the room, putting his cape back on and slipping the Amban rifle on top. They step next door to the Forge, and the Armorer is there, talking to another member of the Covert about who will go on the next supply run. Once they leave, Paz steps forward, Djarin at his side. They kneel by the low table before the foundry. The Armorer, after putting away a datapad, sits across from them.

“Are you ready for your travels?” she asks.

She spoke in Basic and Paz, jarred, glances at Din instead of answering. _Does he not speak Mando’a?_ Paz wonders, but no, they had used Mando’a before, during the sparring match. 

“I am ready.” 

Djarin’s answer, in Basic also, jolts Paz out of his thoughts.

“ _Ni tsikala_ ,” he repeats, the Mando’a automatic. 

The Armorer nods. 

“The beskar must return to Mandalorians. This is the Way.” 

Paz almost fumbles the words in Basic as he repeats the motto, but the Armorer nods, satisfied. She stands, Paz and Din following suit. The Armorer turns back to the forge and her work, and the two Mandalorians head for the exit. Paz automatically heads for his quarters to grab his bag, and only realizes halfway that Djarin is still with him. 

_“Don’t you have to get your own pack?”_

Paz asks in Mando’a and, this time, he sees the time it takes for Djarin to put it together and answer.

“ _No pack, I am ready_.”

Paz shakes his head, and once in his quarters, he closes the door behind them. In Basic, he says:

“You don’t speak much Mando’a.”

Djarin crosses his arms, defensive:

“I am learning.” 

“You are a foundling.” 

It’s not a question but Djarin nods. 

“Why has your _buir_ not taught you more?”

Djarin uncrosses his arms. He seems uncomfortable with the question, so Paz shoves a couple more things in his pack as an excuse to turn around and leave him space. Djarin says, voice low.

“He taught me plenty. Survival and fighting came first.” 

He sounds sad, and Paz is reminded that, beneath the dinged up armor, is a man who lost his parent a few months ago. Turning back to the man, Paz says:

“ _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la._ Not gone, merely marching away.”

“ _Nu… kyradik, shi taabe’chaaj’la_?”

The pronunciation is shaky, but Paz praises Djarin all the same. 

“Good. Come on, I can write it down on the flight to Tatooine.” 

Djarin nods, and as they walk to the Bothan ship, Paz wonders if maybe the Armorer is sending them together because Paz is the one who teaches Mando’a to the foundlings.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _N'eparavu takisit._ ”

“I eat my… bad words? My insult?” wonders Djarin.

“Yes, but it means I’m sorry,” translates Paz. 

“What about _ni ceta_?”

“ _Ni ceta_ is more formal, it means ‘I kneel’ literally.”

Djarin hums and takes notes on his holopad, a beat up antique Paz is surprised still works. 

They have been in hyperspace for an hour or so now, and they have both slowly but surely shed their armor. The ship is so small that the two of them keep bumping into either each other or the walls. The side-by-side seats are still tight, even without the bulk of their armor, and the armless chairs make it so they are encroaching into each other’s space as Paz teaches Djarin some idioms and vocabulary. The newcomer’s grasp of conjugation is tenuous as well, but Paz is starting easy. 

Spotting a spelling error on the datapad, Paz leans closer.

“You’ve got the wrong letter here.”

Djarin makes a sound that resembles a squeak, and Paz turns to him, realizing at once that he has unconsciously put his hand on the other’s thigh when he pointed with the other. Paz immediately bends back. 

“I’m sorry, er, I didn’t mean to…”

 _Touch you all over your unarmored body_ is how the rest of the sentence comes to his mind and Paz closes his mouth, opting to leave it at that. Djarin clears his throat and his voice is neutral when he says:

“Do you kneel, or eat your insult?” 

It takes Paz a second to get it, and when he does he chuckles weakly, unsure how serious the man is. Who knows what offends him? Belatedly, Paz answers: 

“Er, which one would you rather have?” 

Settling back on his chair, Djarin gives him a very obvious once-over, and answers in that same composed voice: 

“The more formal, I think.” 

Paz’s jaw falls open under his helmet. How did it go from Paz being too close to the guy, to said guy flirting with him? Then he gets it. 

“You are joking. You’re messing with me, you, you… _hodarur_.”

Djarin, dropping the pose, leans forward again, his datapad at the ready. 

“ _Hodarur_?” he asks.

“From _hodar_ , to deceive, with the suffix -ur to make it a noun.”

The man takes a note, then raises his head to meet Paz’s gaze.

“So, deceiver? Wait, did you just make it up?”

Paz, now more amused than indignant, continues his lesson.

“I did, but I would have been perfectly understood. Mando’a is flexible like that.” 

“So, what about the suffix -ir, can’t you also make nouns from verbs with that?”

Djarin is catching on fast. Watching the man’s brain at work is actually quite impressive. 

“Well yes, but _hodarir_ would be a deception, while _hodarur_ is the person performing the action of deceiving.”

Djarin makes another note on his datapad. 

Paz rubs his hands in anticipation, already thinking about the next set of words to teach him. The next three hours are promising to be surprisingly fun.


	3. Chapter 3

The Mandalorians have lapsed into silence by the time they break the Tatooine atmosphere. The landscape of blond, rounded dunes interrupted by the occasional copper, jagged rocks is beautiful if barren. Even if it is not exactly at the indicated coordinates, the barge they are supposed to meet the collector at is easy to spot among the uninterrupted sand, the glint of metal and red shades giving it away. Djarin lands their ship close by, and the barge stops to welcome them onboard. It looks bigger from up close, and the Mandalorians glance at each other as they spot the heavily armed personnel going about. 

Four such guards accompany them inside the barge, and they enter a parlor of sorts where foodstuff is being passed through a mixed crowd. Several denuded people wearing decorative chains are performing for the pleasure of a green Hutt, whose central location seems to indicate his status as the host. Paz chances a glance at Djarin, who looks stiff and ready to run. Paz thinks the crowd looks a bit rough, and the naked dancers’ act is not in the best taste, but doesn’t understand the other’s nervousness. They knew the contact was a collector, and people rich enough to have collections tend to be eccentric. 

When the dance number ends and the band switches to an ambience piece, a pale Twi’lek standing next to the Hutt gestures the Mandalorians forward. Paz notices Djarin’s hand twitching like he would feel more comfortable with it on the butt of his blaster, and he can’t blame him: two of the guards behind them have drawn weapons as the Mandalorians approached their boss.

The Hutt stuffs his face with some kind of amphibian and starts speaking Huttese. Din stiffens further, which Paz didn’t think possible, and the Twi’lek translates:

“His Excellency says you are early, armored friends. The item you are seeking to buy has not yet been brought from his Palace’s vault.” 

Paz glances at Djarin: that kind of delay never bodes well. The other Mandalorian is of the same mind as he says:

“When will it arrive?” 

The Hutt laughs, showing off a lack of dental hygiene. His answer, through his assistant’s mouth, is disheartening:

“His Excellency says it will arrive when it will arrive. He advises you to enjoy some food, some company, and to wait with him.” 

The Twi’lek gestures to the lascivious dancers, the colorful drinks and piled-high food, the chattering sycophants. This time, it’s Paz who answers:

“We must respectfully decline. Our Creed, you understand.”

Djarin adds:

“We will be back tomorrow. If the item has not arrived then, we will travel to your palace instead.”

Djarin’s words create a ripple in the room and it’s Paz’s turn to feel his hand itch for his weapon. The Hutt, however, chuckles again. His voice booms as he speaks and the assistant translates, caressing his lekku as he speaks: 

“His Excellency appreciates your daring. He will see you tomorrow.”

Just like that, they are dismissed, and Paz follows Djarin as the man swoops out of the room, hurrying back to the surface and to their Bothan ship. 

“What was this all about?” asks Paz.

Djarin stops abruptly, looking at Paz.

“Vizsla, that was Jabba the Hutt.”

“The crime lord?”

“Slave-owning, Empire-sympathising, Jabba Desilijic Tiure of Nal Hutta, Eminence of Tatooine.” 

“You’ve met him before?”

Din shakes his head and starts back towards the ship. “No, and I could have gone without. I don’t like the sound of this ‘delivery delay’.” 

Paz sighs and follows. 

“I do not either, but what choice is available to us?”

“Raid his vault, like I implied.” 

“Djarin…”

“I’m not serious. The threat was mostly empty and he knows it. But on the off-chance that he thinks us crazy enough, we might get that beskar flute tomorrow.” 

They climb back into the ship, watching the barge as it starts moving again, slowly heading over the next ridge of dunes. 

“Do you wager he truly possesses the _bes’bev_?” asks Paz.

“Even if he does, it’s likely he is after getting more beskar rather than selling any.” 

Djarin sounds more resigned than truly upset, and Paz wonders at the years he and his _buir_ have spent, two Mandalorians alone in the galaxy. 

“He plans on disposing of us,” Paz concludes.

Din powers up the ship, starting to go through the takeoff settings. They are silent a moment as Paz secures the hatch before squeezing himself next to Din. 

“Where to, then?” asks Din, hands hovering over the controls. 

Taken by the impulse to lighten the mood, Paz suggests with a teasing voice:

“We could go to the nearest town, enjoy the Twi’lek healing baths.” 

Din’s helmet turns to him:

“Did I injure you when we sparred?” 

The man sounds actually concerned, and Paz stutters:

“I… No.”

“Then you don’t need the baths.”

After a second of silence where Paz pondered if he was being made fun of again, he insists:

“Djarin, you know they’re not really healing baths, right?” 

“How would you know, have you ever gone?” 

Djarin’s tone is defensive, and Paz admits:

“Well, no, but everybody knows…”

“Everybody knows the Twi’leks in those establishments are often indentured servants coerced into providing sexual favors to clients. When I go, I only go for the healing, and for the baths. And I tip well.” 

The diatribe is the longest Paz has heard Djarin speak in one go, even when they were practicing his Mando’a. Raising his hands in a ‘don’t shoot me’ gesture, Paz says:

“I did not mean to offend. Do you have a better idea of where to spend the night?” 

“I do.” 

It’s all that Djarin says for another half hour as he flies them away from the dunes. Paz stews in his guilt at having brought up an apparently sensitive subject for half of it, but as they enter the network of rocky plateaus and mountains, his anxiety mounts. Djarin starts a slow reconnaissance of the terrain, flying the small ship deeper in the canyons. Finally, not able to contain himself, Paz remarks:

“Those mountains, isn’t it where the Tusken Raiders we were told to avoid live?” 

“It is,” confirms Djarin. 

Another few minutes of silence pass before Djarin spots something invisible to Paz’s eyes and banks sharply, landing them at the bottom of a crevasse. 

“Djarin…?”

“You’ll get your healing baths, Vizsla, don’t worry,” is Din’s only reassurance before he opens the hatch and exits the ship. 

Grabbing his overnight bag just in case the spare ammo turns out needed, Paz gets out as well, blind under the brightness of Tatooine’s two suns. A second later, his visor has adapted to the light and three masked figures have emerged from the shadows, long guns pointed at them. 

Paz immediately draws his blaster, but Djarin puts a hand on his wrist, lowering his weapon before he starts… Groaning? Barking? Whatever the sounds coming out of his mouth are, he’s accompanying them with emphatic gestures. The Tusken Raiders answer in kind, the rough vocalizations more natural coming from the metal grills covering their mouths. 

Just like that, they are invited to spend the night, or so Djarin relays. As they snake their way along the canyon, more Tuskens join the group, along with banthas. Djarin is signing and talking with the Tusken, barely remembering to translate for Paz. They are talking about the weather, the harvest, the health of the banthas. Djarin doesn’t sound perfectly like them, but his mastery of the language is good enough that he’s never asked to repeat by the raiders. Paz falls slightly behind as Djarin forgets to translate for him altogether. 

He’s observing the incredible landscape, and the play of the twin suns’ shadows on the rock, thanking the Armorer for the coolant in his plating, when a Tusken Raider approaches him, pulling a bantha on a lead. They point at him, then at the bantha, and gesture some more while making quieter groans than he’s heard so far. Oh, he’s being offered a bantha to ride. Paz is about to take the lead, not wanting to offend by refusing the generous offer, when Djarin steps back to his side and says in a low voice:

“If I were you, I would not accept, unless you were serious about wanting sex tonight.”

“I… what?”

“Each Tusken bonds with a unique bantha at birth. Offering her bantha for you to ride is an invitation to… well, another kind of riding.” 

Djarin’s whispers sound much too amused for Paz’s taste, and he grumbles:

“Are you having me on again?”

“No, no, I swear. _Ori’haat_!”

Alarmed by what he almost agreed to, Paz asks:

“I don’t even know if she’s a warrior! How do I refuse politely?” 

Stepping so he ends up on Paz’s other side, between him and the amorous Tusken, Djarin says something to her that has the raider shake her hands and walk away. 

“What have you told her?”

“That you never take your helmet off, which I think is because you’re a Rodian whose antennas were torn off in a speeder accident.” 

“Why would you lie to her? I’m not disfigured. I’m not even Rodian!” protests Paz, indignant. 

“I told her I _thought_ you were, so I didn’t lie. You could well be a disfigured Rodian, for all I know. Unless you were planning on marrying her and removing your helmet for her tonight, under some romantic moonlight?” 

Sputtering, Paz admits that he is not. They continue their back-and-forth, Paz learning as they walk that Djarin is Human, and has spent time on Tatooine with his _buir_ after the Purge, hiding from the Imperials in the Huttese-controlled territory. Djarin is downright chatty, and he is moving fluidly. He is at ease here, Paz realises, with this group of nomadic, anonymous warriors. Paz becomes aware there’s a strange common ground there between Tuskens and Mandalorians, and he’s starting to lower his guard himself as they arrive at the entrance of a cave, hidden at a turn of the meandering canyon. 

That’s the moment a band of knee-high, lizard dogs with maws full of sharp teeth descend on their group. Paz is aiming for the leader of the pack when Djarin’s yell cuts through the adrenaline: 

“ _Gev_!”

Everything in Paz is telling him to shoot, but he obeys the order to freeze. A second glance at the situation shows that the creatures are wagging their rears as Tuskens pet them. It’s the welcome home committee, Paz realizes. If _these_ are the pets, Paz dares not imagine what the wild fauna looks like on this desertic hell. Holstering his blaster, Paz voices his thought and Djarin shakes his head.

“You don’t want to know.” 

They enter the cave, an enormous space Paz cannot see the end of. The light is dimmer than the shade in the canyon, but not completely dark. Sunrays are filtering in through a few cracks, and reflected throughout the room with large scraps of polished metal. The Tuskens immediately start making camp, pening the banthas for the night and pitching tents. 

“Should we help?” asks Paz. 

“No, we are just overnight guests.” 

Din sits in a corner, out of the way, and Paz sits next to him. The moment his buttocks touch the ground, one of the lizard dogs comes over and, after sniffing Djarin, comes over to Paz. Paz must smell better than Djarin, because the creature starts trying to climb over Paz’s knees to reach his visor, tongue lolling. 

“Djarin, call off your pet!”

One of those guttural ululations comes out of the man’s throat, but it barely helps in getting the scaly dog to stop pawing at Paz. 

“You’re cool,” explains Djarin.

The compliment has Paz melt under the friendly assault, leaning back on an elbow and petting the affectionate creature which immediately lies on top of him with the other. 

“I did not know desert dogs were fond of such a character trait,” comments Paz. 

Djarin’s laughter, rich and rolling, is a surprise that sends a jolt of pleasure through Paz. The man’s visor turns to stare at Paz’s and he says:

“I meant your armor’s temperature controls. The massiff likes your cold plating.” 

Even feeling like an idiot does not dampen the thrill of having made Djarin laugh. Letting himself lie fully on the hard ground, Paz absent-mindedly pets the massiff, thinking that this mission might not be going how he hoped it would, but that a certain Din Djarin’s presence is sure making it better. 


	4. Chapter 4

Paz wakes up in the most excellent mood. The night before, after taking turns eating in their assigned tent, the Mandalorians left the Tuskens to enjoy their meal by the fire, and Din led Paz to a spot deep in the cavern where fresh water ran. The first pool, said Din, was for drinking water. The second, though, artificially enlarged, was big enough to stand in with water to one’s knees. Armor cooling system or not, the water was divine, and Paz and Din, dressed in their underwear from mid-thigh to neck, played like foundlings at spraying each other until some Tuskens arrived to use the spring themselves. Feeling refreshed and tired, Paz slept soundly. 

Now, it is morning, and time to head back to Jabba the Hutt’s barge. Din’s already awake, sitting by the entrance flap and gearing up, struggling when a bind on his gambeson vest comes loose at his right armpit. Paz sits up and shuffles over quietly. 

“Hey.”

Din jumps a bit, and Paz smirks under his helmet. Everybody assumes Paz is noisy always, but unarmored he can be perfectly silent. Armored, it’s a bit harder, but mostly because of the heavy boots. 

“ _Su’cuy_ ,” eventually greets Din before going back to trying to tie a knot under his own arm with thick gloves on. 

“I can help.” 

“I don’t need help,” grumbles Din. 

He is cute when he is not fully awake, or maybe it is Paz’s good mood skewing his opinion. 

“You don’t, but I’m offering.” 

With a frustrated sigh, Din stops his ineffectual fiddling and turns his side to Paz. Paz crawls closer, rising to his knees when he’s close enough and, hm, okay, Din is smaller than Paz. The lack of armor makes the difference starker, somehow. Paz noticed, the night before at the pool, but now that he’s rested, and there’s dim morning light filtering into the tent, highlighting the curves of Din’s stocky body in his _kute_ (under armor suit) and gambeson vest, the effect is somewhat different. It makes him want to hug the guy, test the give of those muscles for himself. 

“Vizsla?”

Shaking the thought away, Paz gets back to the job at hand. The top tie on the side of the vest must be a field repair, it’s a different color than the others, and the material is slippery. Paz tightens the knot, making sure it won’t slip again, before securing the other ones for good measure. He’s enjoying the proximity, if he’s being honest. The bottom bind has him sit back on his heels to be at the right height, and when he raises his gaze it is level with Din’s through their visors. Paz’s heart kicks up, loud in the quiet of morning, the rest of the camp still asleep, the snuffling of the banthas and Din’s breathing the only other sounds. 

“Do you need help with the other side?”

“No.”

Din pivots until his other side faces Paz, and lifts his arm out of the way. The top two ties, the ones that are hard to access alone, are already done, but the rest are not. Paz bites back any remark, and gets to work. Another few strings have been replaced with that slippery fabric and Paz takes his time knotting them. Feeling bold, Paz tests the fit by slipping a couple fingers between the vest and the _kute_ , drawing a strangled gasp from Din, who straightens and pulls in his gut. His voice a murmur he barely recognizes as his own, Paz says:

“Breathe in, deep, or it’s going to be too tight.” 

Din does as asked, a bit shaky, and Paz hums, half approval, half soothing. Who he is soothing, exactly, stands to be determined as Paz’s blood quickens following Din’s compliance. Din’s armor is conveniently piled within reach, so Paz picks up the front cuirass, fastening it to the gambeson vest. The back cuirass is next, Paz leaning closer to reach the shoulder further from him. The weight seems to settle the other man, and he is breathing deeply as Paz equips his pauldrons, then his vambraces. 

“Stand up.” 

The words are quiet, but Din hears him, and he obeys, suddenly towering over Paz. There is nothing small about the Mandalorian anymore, his blaster-scored and dinged armor the proof of a warrior’s life well led. Paz’s arousal spikes, making his hands shake the slightest bit as he attaches the cuisses and greaves. 

Too soon, there is nothing left to do but attach the belt. Paz picks it up before standing up, and moves slowly until he is behind Din. Paz reaches around the other man to buckle the belt at the front, hands lingering on Din’s waist, hyper aware of his chest resting on Din’s back cuirass. This is as much of a hug as he dares offer, in the absence of any clearer sign, but Din doesn’t sound upset when he moves away the slightest bit and turns to Paz.

“Thanks. It’s been… over a year since…”

He sounds sad, actually, and Paz recoils, ashamed, realising at once that the last person who helped Din gear up was his now-deceased _buir_. He wants to apologize, but Din has grabbed his Amban rifle and is stepping out the tent, saying on his way out:

“I’ll get us breakfast.”

“Din! Your cape.”

But the man is already gone, weaving between the tents, and Paz stands there, feeling foolish. 


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast is a quick affair, and after what Paz assumes is thanking their hosts, Din leads them back to their small ship. The walk and the flight are quiet, words exchanged only to discuss the mission and its logistics, and Paz cannot get a read on the tension between them. Was Din feeling some of the thrill of Paz’s almost touch? Or did Paz overstep? Did he bring up painful memories?

Paz’s good mood has evaporated like dew under twin suns by the time they are brought onto the barge, which circled back to yesterday’s coordinates. They are taken into a less ostentatious room under heavy guard. Jabba is present, as well as the Twi’lek interpreter and the guards, but they are otherwise alone. Din is still being taciturn, so Paz goes through the niceties, greetings on each side and comments on the weather, before they finally get down to business. 

“Now, there’s the matter of the _bes’bev_ , the beskar flute we were promised.”

Jabba’s answer is a long one, and when he is done his majordomo looks nervously at the weapons the Mandalorians were allowed to keep as courtesy to their religion before he translates:

“There was an, er, incident, during transport of the item. Its carrier…”

The pale Twi’lek pets the lekku he has wrapped around himself in a nervous gesture before finishing: 

“Its carrier stole the flute.” 

Din, at Paz’s side, straight up growls, and the guard behind them takes the safety off the blaster pointed at him.

“Now, now, no need to worry! We have all of our employees’ chaincode on record and so we were able to procure this today.”

Out of the depth of his black robes, the Twi’lek extracts a tracking fob. It is beeping slowly, and Paz knows enough about them to tell it means the thief is still planetside. The Hutt points to the fob and says something that has Din shake his head no before the Twi’lek can even say:

“His Excellency suggests the fob is as valuable as the flute itself, as it will lead you to it.” 

Paz is about to protest when Din declares:

“Eighteen thousand credits.” 

It’s a tenth of the flute’s original asking price, and the Twi’lek looks between Din and Jabba with an increasingly worried look. 

“Bantha poodoo,” says the Hutt, and Paz understands that much before he spits something else. 

Din retorts: 

“Sixteen thousand.”

The Hutt snorts and waves his short arm in clear dismissal. Another guard takes the safety off their blaster, and Paz has a hand on his, eyeing the small window and wondering if he’ll fit through if they have to make an hurried exit. Din insists:

“Sixteen thousand and I don’t bring my whole clan to Tatooine for the chase.”

Paz resists the urge to turn and stare at Din. There is no way the Covert would actually do so - their safety relies on their discretion. However, the threat of so many Mandalorians showing up and endangering the Hutt’s agreement with the Empire is enough. Jabba slobbers through an answer the Twi’lek translates.

“His Excellency agrees to your terms.”

Din gestures to Paz, who stands closer to the Twi’lek, and the larger Mandalorian takes the sixteen thousand credits out of his belt purse. He hands them to the Twi’lek, snatching the tracking fob once his hand is free. Tension in the room abates. Paz hears the guards behind them reengaging the safety on their blasters, and breathes a bit easier. At such close range, even the worst shot can aim between the plating. 

Din turns to go away after a curt word that sounds Huttese, and Paz follows with a deadpan: “Pleasure doing business with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Paz has been on a handful of missions, but seeing Din Djarin hunt is something else entirely. First, he correctly assumes that Jabba is attempting to recover the thief and the flute for himself and put a bounty out on them. They stop at the nearest Guild outpost, where Din sits down with a Guild Master he apparently knows, and gets the puck reassigned to them. It ends up being pretty easy since the bounty hunter who picked it up is still at the bar and half pisses himself when Paz’s shadow engulfs him.

Armed with both the puck and the tracking fob, Din then takes them to Jabba’s palace, where he asks a couple of pointed questions to the staff on duty. They are quick to reveal that the thief is a Klatooinian woman with a hefty mortgage. With a sigh, it’s to the town’s notary that Din takes them next. The notary refuses to divulge any information, but it’s clear the thief has visited em and left with the flute and the debt untouched. 

“Where to next?” wonders Paz. 

“The pawn shop.” 

So, to the pawn shop they go, and there they hit beskar. The owner has no qualms about breaking client confidentiality and tells them the Klatooinian tried to pawn a ‘broken, sharp flute’ and that she told her she would be better off scraping it for the metal. Paz waits until they are out of earshot before howling in laughter. If that lady knew how much that ‘broken flute’ is worth she would probably faint. 

They hop on over to Mos Eisley next, the town big enough to have a smith of some kind, and they know they are on the right track because the tracking fob’s indicator starts beeping faster. From there, finding the smith and the Klatooinian inside, in the process of negotiating a price on the _bes’bev_ , is quickly done. 

The thief attempts to draw her blaster, but the metalsmith shakes her head no and declares:

“No shooting in my shop. Take it outside, or holster your weapons.” 

The Klatooinian, her large forehead wrinkling with worry, drops her gun all together. 

“T’was worth a try,” is all she says. 

Paz takes the _bes’bev_ , Din shackles the thief, and they somehow manage to squeeze her behind them in the small ship. The further they get into the desert, looking for the barge, the harder she shakes. 

“Guess it’s the sarlacc for me, then,” she gets out when the red sails of the oblong ship comes into view. 

“The sarlacc?” asks Paz, but Din shakes his head no. 

They land by the barge, and this time when the guards come down to escort them on board, Din says: 

“We are not coming on board. Just fulfilling the bounty Jabba took out.”

The guards place their own shackles on the thief, Din gets his shackles back, takes a holovid of the exchange and of the thief being taken into the barge, and the Mandalorians head back to their two-seater. 

“Why not get on board the barge, show the Hutt his scheme failed?” asks Paz as they sit side by side again, Paz helping Din with the take off sequence. 

They are on course for the Guild outpost when Din answers: 

“You don’t rub your victory in the face of somebody like Jabba. Best way to get killed, and he gets to keep the _bes’bev_ , all the money, and two sets of armor.”

Paz hums in understanding. After a moment more of silence, Din volunteers more information:

“Much safer to get paid from the Guild - Jabba won’t risk his good standing with them, so he’ll pay up. The bounty on the thief was in Flan Calamari too, once changed into Imperial Credits, it’s going to be about eighteen thousand credits.” 

“Eighteen thousand… wait.”

There is a distinct smugness to Din’s voice when he confirms. 

“We’ll get back to the Covert with the flute, the money we were going to spend to buy it, and two thousand extra credits.” 

“ _Oya_!”

“We better be fast though, Jabba might send some of his own mercenaries after us once he realizes we picked up the puck.” 

That makes Paz nervous and excited in equal measure - those guards on the barge looked like they knew what they were doing. Their body armor was broken in but not shabby, and they knew their ways around their weapons. They would be a fair fight. 

The churn in Paz’s gut spikes with adrenaline when the Mandalorians approach the Guild Master’s teashop and recognize a couple of the guards they saw exit the place. Paz points to an alleyway they just passed and the both of them retreat to its shadow, watching as the men walk by, headed for the slab of concrete that serves as the small town’s spaceport. 

“They’ll recognize our ship,” states Din.

“No doubt,” confirms Paz. 

Din looks up to Paz, who suggests: 

“I have a jetpack, I can beat them there, then come get you from the roof of the teashop.” 

Din looks up at said roof. Sighs. 

“You’ve flown the ship before?”

“Once,” admits Paz, truthfully. 

Paz’s focus leans towards jetpack flying and heavy infantry, so he’s never done more than the mandatory piloting training every Covert member gets, just in case. Din sighs again, and as the four guards turn the corner, he says:

“The pitch lever gets stuck halfway. Be gentle or you’ll crash.” 

And with that, Din walks away and into the teashop. Paz loses not time in taking off. Once he flies over the guards, they’ll be onto him and time will be short. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Din, come on, time to go!”

Paz is hovering as he can above the teashop, unsure the structure would actually support the small ship’s weight. Din is climbing the facade handhold by handhold and Paz promises himself he will equip the guy with a hook line as soon as they get back to the Covert. 

Coming up the street at a run are the four guards Paz left in the dust on his way to the landing pad, and they are almost in range for their blasters to start hitting. Finally, Din heaves himself over the edge of the rooftop and sprints to the open hatch of the ship, diving inside. 

Paz immediately gives them some altitude. Behind him, Din swears in a language Paz doesn’t recognize, and when Paz glances back, Din is struggling to secure the hatch and not plummet to his death. Finally, the latch clicks and Din secures the door. 

“Kriffing manual door,” he grumbles as he steps inside the cockpit. 

Paz is wearing his armor, as is Din, and they don’t fit on the two seats that way. With more muttering, Din retreats a step. Paz has to focus on the flying, he’s not a good enough pilot to be looking over his shoulder at the guy, but he can hear the telltale clangs and snicks of armor being removed. Din is probably stashing it in the hold’s small gear locker as they did on the way in. 

“Shall I set a course for Nevarro?”

“Yes. It’s in the computer already.” 

Paz jumps a bit, Din is very close all of a sudden. Took his boots off too, maybe? Din reaches over Paz’s shoulder to the navicomputer and types for a minute until the computer chimes. Heart beating fast at the other’s closeness, Paz takes them into hyperspace and puts the ship on autopilot. 

Turning the slightest bit towards Din, who is still standing at his shoulder, Paz asks:

“Were you able to turn in the puck?”

Din drops Flan Calamari in Paz’s lap as an answer. Laughing, Paz puts them away in his belt purse. Titling his head to look up at Din, he declares:

“The Armorer will be pleased.” 

Din nods. They are silent a moment, watching the stars stream by outside the windshield. Then Din asks, voice low:

“Do you mind assigning the extra credits to the foundlings?” 

Paz looks back up at Din, but the straight shoulders and blank helmet don’t give anything away. Remembering Din is a foundling himself, Paz answers truthfully: 

“I do not mind at all.”

“Thank you.” 

The softness in Din’s voice, even through the modulator, sends a shiver down Paz’s spine. Aching for something to do that is not reaching out and hugging the other man, Paz gets up. This creates an immediate issue, as Din has to back up into the hold to allow Paz down the hallway. Now, they are standing too close to each other by the gear locker, which does not help Paz in the least. Deciding to distract himself with removing his armor, from the bottom up, Paz starts on his boots and greaves. He is working on his left cuisse when Din steps closer, asking in a whisper:

“Paz… Would you let me help you?”

The offer cannot be a simple courtesy about returning this morning’s favor. Helping gearing up and down carry very different meanings, and there is no Mandalorian, however different their Path, who is not aware of that. Still, Paz has to check. 

“Din, if you do this…” 

The other steps closer, plastering himself to Paz’s front cuirass, rising on his tiptoes to reach Paz’s audio input. 

“Paz, I know.”

Paz wishes his cuirass was off already, and he could feel the heat of Din’s body through their _kute_ (flight suits). 

“We barely know each other,” he protests weakly, unsure why he is putting up a fight at all. 

“We know each other well enough for a bit of fun.”

“I’m not the kind of man who only has a bit of fun,” admits Paz, expecting Din to back off and give up. Instead, the click of the cuirass’ catch is loud over the quiet hum of the engines. Din murmurs:

“Yeah, me neither.”

The front cuirass is put aside, and Paz groans when, in the process of removing the back one, Din finally gives Paz that hug he has been thinking about. 

“What it is in Mando’a? _Nu ba'soleta bat ven'tuur_?” asks Din, voice rough. 

“Don’t count on tomorrow,” Paz translates before adding the second half of the saying: “ _Ke'vaabi o'r ibi'tuur_ , do it today.” 

Din places the back cuirass in the locker and comes back to Paz, trailing a hand along Paz’s arm and to his nape. The barest of pressure is applied, a suggestion, and Din asks:

“Do it today, with me?” 

Yielding with delight, Paz leans his head down to meet Din’s, helmet to helmet. Turns out, be it in Basic or Mando’a, Din Djarin can be a heck of a charmer. 


End file.
